


On the Table

by kayliemalinza



Category: Once Upon a Time in Mexico (2003)
Genre: Drug Use, Gen, Gore, Permanent Injury, Surgery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-12
Updated: 2007-03-12
Packaged: 2017-11-13 16:35:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/505539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayliemalinza/pseuds/kayliemalinza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A lovely conversation between Agent Sands and the good Doctor Guevera, mid-operation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Table

It was clever of Guevera to stitch Sands' eyelids together, closing up the eye sockets. He was pretty considerate about it, too. If one were inclined to be cynical—and Sands was—Guevera probably had a fondness for weird-ass stitch-jobs or just wanted bragging rights. But he sterilized the needle first, and Sands really appreciated that.

"Thanks for scooping out the eyeball jelly after you popped them, Doc," Sands said, grinning at the red loops jostling in his brain and the swooshy back-forth tilt of the table beneath him. "That shows a fine attention to detail. I can tell from the stitching that you're a man who likes to see things through. Have you ever thought of going into private practice?"

"I like working for Barillo," Guevera said, smiling. Sands assumed he was smiling. He _sounded_ like he was smiling. What did people sound like when they were smiling? Sands needed to look into that. He also needed to find what kind of tranquilizer these people were using, and whether it shared a chemical structure with any of the common party drugs. If not, perhaps Sands could market it as a new one. He could feel his toenails growing. His skin was tingly. Kids would love this.

"I'm not sure how long Barillo's going to be around after I give my report to the CIA," he said. "They don't look kindly on maiming agents, particularly in a manner which impedes their duties. The Marines are probably already on their way right now. I'll try to put in a good word for you, Guevera, but they'll probably shoot Barillo on sight. That's how they roll."

" _Santa Maria_ ," muttered the guard. It sounded like he was to the left of the table, five or six feet away. "Can you cut out his tongue, too?"

"I assure you, that's completely unnecessary," Sands said.

"I'm finished with this," said Guevera, snipping the thread.

The guard grunted in response. Sands had just realized that the guard was closer than before when the leather straps fell back and he was wrenched off the table. He staggered through a flexing mind-eye's vortex tube, pinned to reality by the hard grip on his arm and the collision of hip and wall. The guard let go and Sands slid down the rip-fuzzed wallpaper, emptying lunch's pork on the floor. It splattered lukewarm on his knuckles. "Find your way out, _agent_ ," laughed the guard. Two pairs of footsteps, a whooshing door; it snicked shut.

"Mother's balls," mumbled Sands, burying his face in his hands. He slid his fingers gingerly to the bristly seam and smeared the fluid seeping out. "Shit," said Sands, and jammed a fist into his mouth to stop the keening scream. He breathed in and out. He pressed his shoulder to the wall.

"Ok," he said. "This isn't over. This can still work. Get up. Get out. Kill the fuckers." He crept up onto his feet, leaning against the wall. Carefully, he pressed himself away from it. He wavered, touched a single finger to the wall for balance, then moved it away and _stood_.

"It's not over yet," he said. He stepped into emptiness, toward the door. "I work for the CIA. I am Sheldon Jeffrey Sands."


End file.
